“Right. So we’ve two mysteries wrapped in an enigma and an enigma wrapped in a mystery. Get them into the IsoLab, and keep them under total isolation for now. I’ve an appointment with the owner and the chief scientist.”
“WE’VE GOT A PROBLEM, SIR.” The Marine officer stared at the threatening bulk of the cannon as he spoke into his comlink. “We’ve three of these cannon, and I think they’re loaded, but we have no information on how to unload them or make them safe.”
“Nothing in the databanks?”
“Nothing useful, sir. Apparently whoever compiled those records felt the only safe way to do it was to fire them.”
“Well, that’s out of the question.” Captain Heron drummed his fingers on the arm of the command chair. “Have a word with Surgeon Commander Myers. See if he’ll let you talk to the midshipman who arrived with them. I’ll tell him you’re coming. In the meantime, get your people to secure the damned things and keep the area clear.”
“Yes, sir.” Captain Wardman cut the link and turned to his sergeant. “Clear the area. Don’t let anyone fiddle with the cannons.”
WHEN HARRY’S EYES FLUTTERED OPEN, his first moment of awareness was a feeling of complete disorientation. The last thing he remembered was attacking a pair of men wearing frightening suits of armour. Now he found himself staring at a blank white surface above him through a glass window set in some device enclosing him. He tried to move his arms to test the surface and found he couldn’t, nor could he change his position or move his legs to any significant degree. Fear gripped him when he realised that he was restrained and helpless within the confines of this device, and embarrassment overcame him when he realised that he was unclothed.
His anger flared. How dare the French treat him so? He was an officer of His Majesty’s Navy and a prisoner of war, by God! He could hear voices nearby, but he could not see who was speaking, nor could he move his head. Did they plan to cut off his head with their guillotine? Was that why he was restrained? Fright cooled his anger even as an alarming beeping sound penetrated his ears.
A terrifying vision appeared in the window above him. It seemed to be some sort of misshapen head, its face a shiny blank. His fright turned to desperation, and he fought to free himself of this vile confinement.
“Begone, fiend! You shall not have me without a fight. Let me but free myself, and I’ll....” Suddenly he felt himself floating, and ceased struggling. Still frightened, he demanded weakly, “What power is this? What have you done to me?”
“Easy, lad, easy. You’re in a med unit.” The figure operated something out of Harry’s sight. “Try to stay calm. You’re in no danger.”
The speech, so strange, distorted by the mask and coming from some device inside the helmet enclosing Harry’s head, made him even more determined to escape. He barely understood the words, but what was more frightening was this creature’s ability to project his voice into Harry’s head. Was he in hell? It seemed he must be, though it did not resemble the Reverend Mr Paisley’s frequent descriptions of that infernal place.
The figure moved, and the window slid back, admitting a new range of smells unfamiliar and strange to Harry’s nostrils. Hands appeared, and the figure gripped its grotesque mechanical head and twisted it, and to Harry’s shock, removed it to reveal the rather saturnine face of a man in his mid-forties. “Take it easy, young man. No one wants to hurt you.”
The language was so strange to his ears that Harry thought it must be a poor excuse for French, even worse than his, according to his tutor, and so he replied in that language. “M’suie, I am a midshipman in his Britannic Majesty’s Navy. You cannot treat me in this manner.”
The man frowned. “Sorry, young man. I didn’t understand a word of that. Do you speak English?”
Frowning at the strange enunciation, Harry felt confused. “Of course. What language do you use? If it be English, it is unlike any accent I am familiar with.”
“Ah. I see. We may have a problem then.” Surgeon Commander Myers spoke slowly and as clearly as he could. “Can you understand me if I speak slowly?”
The fright seemed to be draining from him as Harry met the man’s gaze. Feeling strangely relaxed now, he responded with a brief chuckle. “Aye, sir, perhaps we may communicate in the pigeon English we used in the Indies, if that helps.”
Len smiled. “I doubt it.” Checking something out of Harry’s sight, he nodded as someone out of view addressed him. “Just a moment. I’m needed elsewhere. I’ll leave you with MedTech Katerina de Vries. She’ll start getting you out of there.”
A moment later, an attractive blonde young woman took over. “Hello, there. You’ve caused quite a stir.” She busied herself operating something Harry couldn’t see. “Looks like you’re enjoying this.” She glanced up and down the length of his body then looked at him with a daring smile. “The muscle stimulant does it. Keeps your muscles toned, if you know what I mean. So, where did you spring from anyway?”
“Our ship was engaged with a French frigate, and then we were....”
“What sort of ship? Was it one of our Fleet?”
Harry sensed various probes and tubes being withdrawn from his body, some of them from rather intimate locations. He couldn’t imagine a woman being allowed to do this sort of work on a young man like him. “Ah...it was a seventy-four, ma’am...the HMS Spartan.” He frowned when he realised her expression showed she had not understood him. “She carries seventy-four guns, and we are a company of above five hundred.”
Thinking quickly and remembering a bit of naval history, Katerina felt her pulse increase. So it was true! This handsome teen and his friends hailed from some sort of sailing ship straight out of the nineteenth century. She laughed and said, “So you’re some kind of ancient mariner then, climbing the rigging, riding in the crow’s nest and all that—how exciting.” Seeing her boss approaching, she quickly added under her breath, “Anyway, welcome to our world, you salty dog. MedTech Katerina de Vries at your service.” She gave Harry a smile and a wink before she turned to her boss. “Almost ready for extrication, sir."
Len Myers had picked up a bit of the conversation. “So you’ve been dubbed our Ancient Mariner, eh, lad?” He chuckled. He gave Katerina a warning glare. He knew she had a tendency to get too friendly with the young male patients. “Let me take over here, MedTech de Vries.” She departed with an impertinent huff. Len turned back to his patient. “Okay, Harry, now that you’re feeling a bit better, there’s something you can help us with. Bob Wardman, captain of our Royal Marines, needs your assistance with an important task. Are you feeling up to it?”
“Aye, sir, I am.” Harry frowned. “May I ask, sir, where are my men—Ferghal O’Connor and Danny Gunn? Not in irons, I hope! Ferghal was hurt, but with care, his arm will heal, and his shoulder may be fixed.”
“Relax, lad. Ferghal’s arm was beautifully splinted. Was that your work?” Len caught Harry’s acknowledgement. “And his shoulder was a simple dislocation. A few more hours in a med unit and he’ll be good as new. As for that little demon you call Danny, he’s asleep in another med unit. You can see both of them as soon as we have you out of this one.”
Pondering this puzzling statement, Harry was helped get out by several more figures in the same all-enclosing suits, their faces still hidden behind shields. He froze in embarrassment as MedTech de Vries grinned, and he desperately wished he could cover himself, but he’d no sooner had this thought than his attention focussed on the banks of winking lights, strange machines and ghostly displays. The very walls seemed alive.
Reading Harry’s expression and sensing his embarrassment, Len Myers mentally kicked himself for being unaware of such a cultural faux pas for one such as Harry. Snatching up a thin thermal blanket, he handed it to Harry, who wrapped it round himself. “That’ll do until we can sort out your clothes. Now I’d better introduce myself. I’m Surgeon Commander Myers, Head of Medicine aboard this ship, and this is my team.” Helping Harry stand, he smile
d and held out a hand. “You are?”
Clutching the blanket in his left hand, he took the proffered hand in his right. “Henry Nelson-Heron, sir, Midshipman of His Most Britannic Majesty’s ship Spartan, but you may call me Harry.”
Chapter 5
Piecing It Together
REFRESHED BY A QUICK WASH and a drink of the cleanest water he’d tasted since leaving Ireland, Harry pulled on the clothes the surgeon commander provided. Marvelling at the elastic quality of the undergarments and the comfort of the close-fitting trousers and shirt, he felt somehow more comfortable as he faced the man he was told was a Royal Marine, though his uniform looked nothing like that of the Bullocks aboard the Spartan.
“You wished to speak to me, sir?”
“Yes, I’m hoping you can help me with a problem.” The Captain paused, watching Harry’s face. “We have some of the guns from your ship on board, and I need to know how they were loaded and fired, and how I can make them safe. Can you tell me this?”
“Of course, sir.” Harry marvelled that these officers didn’t know such elementary matters, yet they claimed to be soldiers and sailors, and they were older than he was and obviously higher in rank. “The charge is contained in a canvas cartridge—for a thirty-two pounder, ten pounds eleven ounces of best black powder—then a wad, then the ball, and a second wad to hold it against the roll. If it is one of my division’s guns, it will be double-shotted if it has not been fired, and the charge will be half the full one.” He saw the Marine’s expression. “Does the gun have a firing lock at the breech?”
“If you mean a sort of flintlock device—yes, it does.”
Frowning, Harry considered this. “Is it still cocked? The flint drawn back and the frizzen pan closed? If so, you must open the pan and remove the powder it contains. A quill will have been inserted through the touchhole to penetrate the cartridge. You will need to extract that as well—take care to make no spark though, since that will ignite the charge.”
“Okay, we’ll do that. But how do we extract the main charge and make that safe?”
With a chuckle, Harry replied, “Very carefully!” He saw the frown. “My apologies, sir, I could not resist. It is no simple matter. First, you must extract the wad, then the ball, the second wad and ball, and then the third wad. You will need to exercise great care to avoid any spark, as loose powder may be present in the barrel and will ignite.”
Recording the instructions on a strange film-like thing taken from his pocket, the Marine frowned. “What tools do we need? We found an odd assortment of implements among the wreckage that look as if they belong to the guns. What am I looking for?”
“Perhaps it would be better if I accompanied you, sir—if it is permissible—and I can show you, or your men, how it is done.”
Bob Wardman hesitated. There was always the risk the youngster could try something silly, like deliberately firing the damned cannon. He glanced at Len, who gave a slight nod of agreement. “If Surgeon Commander Myers thinks it won’t cause a problem for you, then yes, it would be helpful to have you present. You can explain to my lads what to do, and they’ll do it.”
ARI KHAMENEI, CHAIRMAN OF THE INTERPLANETARY consortium, let his annoyance show. “The WTO fleet are sending a squadron to Pangaea led by their flagship Vanguard. Our people in the Confederate bureaucracy have failed to prevent it. Now I need you to listen to me. This is important. Our operations are at risk, as are the bases your division has constructed.” His frown deepened. “There is another reason we cannot allow them to take it back. Johnstone has a special facility there. His people are working on several potentially important but explosive projects. It must not be exposed.”
“What do you want us to do, Ari?” Vladimir, a slim dark-haired man in an immaculate suit, waved a hand over the assembled board members. “It must be earth shattering to merit bringing all of us aboard this beauty.”
“She is a beauty, and totally secure as well, thanks to your company’s expertise in such matters.” Pausing, Ari held his visitor’s gaze. “I want you to ensure that Pangaea remains in our control, whatever it takes. As for the squadron, we are on our way to meet our own fleet. I want them to see what we have built.”
Steepling his fingers, Chairman Khamenei frowned. “I want your forces on Pangaea reinforced to better resist the invasion by the Fleet. We have not invested all this time and money in acquiring control of it and the other worlds just to allow the WTO and the European Confederacy to take over and interfere with our operations.” Khamenei smiled. He was obviously very pleased with himself. “We are almost ready to move, my friend.”
Vladimir Polanski nodded. “So my operatives tell me.” When the Chairman frowned at this comment, Polanski added, “Come, Ari. You would be disappointed if they didn’t know.” He hesitated then elaborated further. “My people tell me the squadron tasked with restoring the situation on Pangaea is a powerful one—the Vanguard is their newest and most powerful starship, and she’s supported by two others only slightly less formidable, plus, of course, their usual escorts and the troops they carry.”
“I am aware, and have ordered Admiral Hsu to prepare his ships to deal with them.”
“You realise this will be seen as a declaration of war.”
The Chairman wasn’t fazed by the thought. “Of course, but that is of no concern. If all goes according to plan, we may not have to face the Fleet, and if we must, I have people in place who can reduce or at least neutralise their effectiveness.”
CAPTAIN JAMES HERON REMOVED HIS JACKET and sank into a comfortable chair in his private quarters, easing back with a relieved sigh. He hefted the tablet and read the latest security update from Fleet Admiralty. This business on the planet Pangaea was growing more troubling by the minute.
The latest intelligence briefing showed the Consortium had complete control of the planetary government and had garrisoned it, they claimed, to protect their interests. Originally, a purely commercial enterprise, the Consortium had grown considerably beyond that. Now operating almost all private security operations, it even maintained a fleet of small armed cruisers—officially sanctioned to protect its cargo haulers—but evidently now being used to seize control of assets and colony worlds.
The Consortium was openly challenging the World Treaty Organisation and the North European Confederation’s authority to secure the rights of the colonists on Pangaea and several other planets.
The door signal sounded. “Come.” He looked up as his executive commander entered. “Yes, Richard?”
“Just received an FYEO, sir.” He handed over an encrypted data chip. “Oh, and they’ve found some debris on the seabed at the coordinates corresponding to the transit gate. They think they have the probes we lost.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“Some wreckage that they think is the remains of a wooden man o’ war—a sailing ship dating from the mid eighteen hundreds, sir.” Richard hesitated. “The scientists think there may be a connection. They are talking about some sort of exchange mechanism due to a burst of tachyons escaping through the gate as the ship entered.” He grimaced. “That’s the latest theory. Apparently, the gate is located right above the centre of one of the Earth’s eight magnetic anomaly zones. They think that’s the key.”
The Captain’s gaze rested on the model of the seventy-four gun HMS Vanguard, the oldest example among the models and pictures of previous Vanguards. Next to it was a copy of a plaque commemorating one of his ancestors. It had intrigued him ever since he’d first seen it on a visit to a church long associated with his family in Northern Ireland:
In loving memory of Henry Nelson-Heron, Midshipman serving aboard His Most Britannic Majesty’s ship Spartan seventy-four guns. Lost at sea in a sea-fight with two frigates of the French Fleet the 30th day of November in the year of our Lord 1804. Born 20th May 1789. Died at sea 30th, November 1804. Also to the memory of Ferghal O’Connor, boy seaman and sometime stable boy in this Parish, friend and companio
n of the aforesaid Henry, lost in the same sea-fight. Born 11th February 1787 and died at sea
30th November 1804.
His glance fell on the date and time display on his desk. It read November 30, 2204.
“Ironic,” he murmured. “Today is the four hundredth anniversary of the death of Midshipman Heron, who would be my twelve times great uncle, and our departure point was directly above his ship’s location on the Indian Ocean....”
He met the appalled gaze of his executive officer.
“Could it be that we caused...?”
Richard lifted his shoulders in speculation but said nothing.
His expression grim, Captain Heron rose to his feet, reaching for his jacket. “I hope not, but we’ll soon find out. Please join me, Richard. I want you in on this.”
His comlink chirped. “Surgeon Commander’s compliments, sir. Could you join him and Dr Grüneland in the Medical Briefing Room?”
“Tell him I’m on my way.” Shrugging into his jacket, he nodded to Richard. “I’ll need to talk to the C-in-C as soon as I’m finished with this.” Scooping up the data chip, he dropped it into a drawer and applied the security lock. “I’ll brief you as soon as I have anything more on the Consortium’s activities—and anything on those three boys, whoever they are.” Holding the door for Richard, he added, “This is going to complicate our mission. Better make sure we aren’t compromised. Put an embargo on any communication regarding our three newcomers for now. I want to know a lot more about them first.”
SURVEYING THE WRECKAGE, Harry felt a twinge of alarm. Around the big thirty-two pounder lay its tackle, some of the levers and tools and other unidentifiable items. Across the huge hangar lay another pile of wreckage. Guiltily he felt some relief and a bit of satisfaction when he recognised, based on the coloured paint, that some of the timbers came from the French frigate and not from Spartan.
Harry Heron: Into the Unknown Page 4
